Thread durability
by breadnotangels
Summary: Set in the Scandal in Belgravia episode, where Sherlock seems unhappy to depart with his beloved bed-sheet. But why? A fic gifted to the glorious geekvsnerd. Contains M/M & Smut.
1. Chapter 1

"I was testing thread durability."

John's wool-ridden hands clenched into fists, the ends of the thread trailing and dangling down onto the floor and pooling around his ankles. Another, darker pile of zig-zagging thread lay on the sofa, and several other piles could be seen around the room, their spiralling fibres symbolising the ashes of several dearly-loved jumpers.

"So you took it upon yourself to pick my jumpers apart?! Why couldn't you use your own?"

Sherlock snorted and pulled his bed-sheet tighter around his shoulders.

"Please, John. You and I know perfectly well that I haven't worn a _jumper _of any kind since I was of school age. Wool and I are not well-suited."

The doctor's lips set into a tight line, and he dropped the remnants of his kitten jumper onto the wooden floor by his feet, and took a step towards Sherlock. As he took a breath, a thought occurred to him, making him smile slyly to himself as he observed the man in front of him. Reaching up, he stroked a strand of hair away from the detective's eyes, and trailed a finger along the rumpled sheet that hid that muscular body from view. Sherlock's breathing hitched a little, and his pupils dilated as John's cold fingers slipped underneath the fabric to map the contours of his naked skin. Desperately, the detective tried to maintain some sort of control.

"John. John, Lestrade called. A case has – uh; we should..."

The doctor ignored him, instead concentrating on the way Sherlock's lean body arched into his touch, how the sheet was slowly sliding from his shoulders and down his ribcage, threatening to slip off of his angular hips and reveal yet more creamy flesh.

"You ruined half of my clothes, Sherlock, didn't you?" he asked gently, punctuating the question by taking one of the detective's hard nipples between his thumb and forefinger and tugging gently.

Sherlock's eyes slid shut and he nodded; whimpering delicately as the pressure on his sensitive nipple increased. John tugged harder and the detective was drawn up almost onto his toes.

"Uh! Yes." he murmured breathlessly. "John-"

The doctor pressed his body against Sherlock's, allowing the rough denim fabric of his jeans to rub tantalisingly against the detective's hard cock and sliding his free hand round Sherlock's hip to squeeze his firm arse. As he felt those sharp hips press into his leg and slide ever so slightly upwards, John Watson knew he had the world's greatest detective right where he wanted him.

"I think we should play a game" he said, pulling his leg back to deny Sherlock any friction, and watching with amusement as the detective hips moved involuntarily to try and maintain contact. Sherlock's eyes opened a little.

"A game?"

"Mmm." John replied, moving his leg slowly back between Sherlock's thighs, but only applying half the pressure. "I think you owe me that much, don't you?"

Upon receiving no coherent reply, John withdrew his leg again, and this time Sherlock's desperation was even more obvious.

"Yes!" said the detective hurriedly, arching into John's body and looking at him with lustful eyes. "Yes, we'll play a game, I want to play."

The doctor smiled and pushed straight back in between Sherlock's thighs, thrusting his leg with such pressure that the fabric grazed right against the underside of the detective arse.

"You're playing whether you want to or not. The game's called: Sherlock's confiscated clothes. Seeing as you were so quick to take something of mine, it seems only fair I take something of yours".

The rutting against John's leg paused as Sherlock narrowed his eyes to stare at John.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am" growled John, squeezing the supple flesh of the detective's arse harder until he moaned indignantly. "You're forbidden to wear any clothes at all, until I've decided you've been good enough to earn them back."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but John could tell from his eyes he was nervous. "What happens if I disobey?"

John slid a finger between the detective's arse cheeks and dragged it along the sensitive corridor of flesh, right up to his lower back, enjoying the gasp and shudder of Sherlock's body as he did so.

"Then you won't get your reward" he said simply. Removing his hands from Sherlock's taut body, he stepped away, relishing the sheer disbelief and desperation that was radiating off of Sherlock in waves.

"No matter what you have to do, who you have to talk to or where you have to go, you are _forbidden _from putting on any clothes, Sherlock. Not until I say so."

With that, the doctor plucked his coat from the sofa and strode out of the room, leaving the detective staring at his back with a dazed expression.

"But what's my reward?!" he shouted at John's fading footsteps. "John-John! How am I supposed-"

The slam of the front door silenced Sherlock's yells, and Dr Watson couldn't help but smile as he walked towards the Baker Street taxi rank, his phone already buzzing furiously in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock would have to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Again, for geekvsnerd. Also, I feel silly saying this, but in case anyone wasn't aware, an asterisk refers to a skip or change in time. Don't forget to review! Enjoy 3 **

The folded pile of clothes was dumped on the table, on top of the rather unceremoniously closed laptop which had only a few moments ago, been projecting the image and voice of John Watson, who was rather smugly wandering around a new crime scene. Sherlock was in an irritable mood, still dressed in only a sheet, and now having his conversation with another incompetent detective inspector rudely interrupted by Her Majesty's Idiot Office Workers.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the clothes presented to him, but inside his brain was whirring full pelt as he stared at the garments in front of him. He had a decision to make. Looking up at the man standing behind him, he took in everything. The manicured nails, the hairs of one, no, two - make that three, small dogs, the expensive suit...and yet only half his mind was occupied.

The other half was repeating John's words over and over in his head.

_"No matter what you have to do, who you have to talk to or where you have to go, you are__forbidden__from putting on any clothes, Sherlock. Not until I say so."_

The pit of Sherlock's stomach swirled, and he felt his pulse jump as he recalled the deep, commanding tone of John's voice. That look of firm control, as if through some alternate power, the doctor had possession over everything Sherlock did. That absolute confidence in his tone, that Sherlock would play along - at any price.

And what would his reward be? He couldn't help feeling that any sacrifice he made now, any submission of will, would be so deliciously worth it. John had a way of making him want the things that he had previously ignored about himself, things he had continuously denied himself for years on end... A clear voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Please Mr Holmes. Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Something about those words stirred the resolution inside him, and he turned to smirk at the subordinate official of Royal delegation.

"Oh, I know exactly where I'm going."

Dr Watson; your challenge is most _majestically_ accepted.

The doctor's legs were shaking slightly as he followed the man in the suit along the chandelier-lit corridors of Buckingham Palace. The helicopter ride has been a surprise, but obviously nothing new to him. This however, made John Watson feel so out of his depth, he was in danger of drowning. The illustrious hallways, embellished in the finest manner, seem to drag on forever, and his shoes seemed sinfully loud against the overwhelming hush that settled along the ornate corridors. The official man stopped and gestured towards a room just before the end of the corridor, on the left. There, sitting on a deep red couch looking pensive, was Sherlock Holmes. Still wearing his bed sheet; like a small child dressing up as an Ancient Greek for fancy dress.

The doctor paused for a second, taking this piece of information in. When the detective looked over, John gave him a questioning look. But Sherlock replied with no more than a shrug, before returning his gaze to the opposite wall, which he was staring at rather intensely. John walked tentatively towards the couch, taking the seat furthest from Sherlock, noting as he did so the pile of clothes sitting on the low coffee table. Clothes he immediately recognised as the detective's. Looking Sherlock over once more, he frowned, and spoke.

"...Are you wearing any pants?"

"Mm, no."

"Ok."

The laughter than followed was, for both men, a release of tension. John was pretty much delirious, unable to believe he was currently sitting in Buckingham Palace, but also that because of his commands, Sherlock Holmes was now sitting beside him, wearing nothing but a strategically positioned sheet. The doctor couldn't quite believe the lengths Sherlock had gone to not to disappoint him, and it was testimony to their relationship that, in some warped way, John wasn't all that surprised. It wasn't like Sherlock to do things by halves, after all. The detective's superb disregard for decency, when it threatened to jeopardise his selfish desires, was so painfully attractive that John wanted to bend him over the couch and fuck him right there and then.

Perhaps not, John thought. God knows how much it would cost to get these sofa cushions reupholstered...


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi ride home was a nightmare. Sherlock claimed they were only stopping by to pick something up from the flat, before they went in pursuit of the Adler woman. But John knew better. He knew from the impatient twitching in Sherlock's legs, his deep and rolling nervous laughter, the way his eyes flickered uninterestedly around as he tried to distract himself. And the slightly crumpled clothes he was now wearing, after a subtle nod of consent from John at the palace, seemed to be even tighter than usual. Their legs pressed up against each other, John put a firm hand on Sherlock's thigh to stop the movement, only to find his fingers itching to steal its way further up, to stroke and expose the bulge of the detective's hard and eager cock from beneath his ill-fitting trousers.

The car had barely rolled to a halt outside 221B before Sherlock leapt out without a backwards glance, flinging the door open and almost knocking over a passer-by in his haste to get to the front door. The doctor grinned, and calmly paid the cabbie, thanking him and stepping out onto the street. He made his steady way to the front door, and walked up the stairs, taking him time and trying to listen to the detective's movements from the landing.

Entering the living room, he smirked as he watched Sherlock's disastrous attempt at nonchalance. The detective was sitting on the sofa, drumming his fingers on the armrest, his leg twitching up and down and he was very pointedly ignoring John's existence. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright, his breathing still a little hitched from his speedy ascent up the stairs. His legs were crossed in an attempt to disguise his arousal, and he had an air about him of someone who was trying a little too hard to be bored. He had already removed his shoes, and one lay discarded by the door, while the other was somewhere underneath the coffee table.

The doctor decided that subtlety was not an option, and went for the jugular.

"Ok, so you went to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet, and spent the whole taxi ride here with your legs spread, but the second we get up here, you're not interested?"

Sherlock looked mildly uncomfortable, and shrugged. John rolled his eyes. Toeing off his own shoes, he wandered over to where the detective sat and leaned over him, trailing a hand up Sherlock's shirt-clad chest.

Sherlock automatically leaned into his touch, his unforgivably tight shirt threatening to split at its taut seams as he arched into John's fingertips. The doctor ran his other hand along Sherlock's thigh, feeling the convulsions of the detective's muscles as he alternately fought to keep his legs crossed, or spread them. John growled at Sherlock's resistance and forced his hand between the gap in the detective's legs, pushing his palm against Sherlock's crotch until he untangled his long legs from one another and spread them, wide enough that his cock strained against the fabric of his trousers. The friction of John's hand rubbing against him was enough to make him a whimper a little, grinding upwards to maintain a decent amount of pressure. John moved his hand back an inch, and Sherlock followed, his hips thrusting up and off of the couch almost completely, seemingly unaware of his own obvious desperation.

John smiled and pulled his hand back even further, relishing Sherlock's whine of frustration as his sought- after pressure was lost again.

"Look at you" said the doctor as Sherlock physically pulled John's hand back towards himself. "You're not so great at maintaining the whole hard-to-get act, are you?"

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper, but said nothing else, his face contorted with concentration as he palmed himself off on John's hand.

The hand on Sherlock's chest felt through the fabric for a sensitive nipple, and pinched, whilst the other pushed right up against Sherlock crotch, applying a little too much pressure for it to be entirely pleasurable. John loved feeling Sherlock squirm underneath him, trying to find the right angle to thrust into his hand without unwittingly pushing his nipples further into John's painful grasp.

"I can't believe how good you were, Sherlock" John murmured, his lustful eyes travelling down the detective's body, drinking in the squirming mess that sat before him.

"You obeyed me like I asked, didn't you?" Sherlock nodded frantically, his own hands reaching up to grasp the wrist of the hand which was playing with his nipples, not even sure himself if he was trying to prise those fingers off or make them pinch harder.

"So I suppose," John continued, "I suppose you deserve your reward, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded again, but this apparently, was no longer a satisfactory reply.

"Oh, you don't want it then?" the doctor said, his tone teasing and playful as he continued to push his palms right up against Sherlock's body, pretending to be blind to his obvious gestures of ascent.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "No!" he said desperately, staring at John like he thought him a madman. "No, I do, I want it. Please..."

In one swift movement, John released Sherlock from his grasp, and tore the rather hard-working shirt right down the detective's chest, the buttons snapping off easily after months of long-suffering service. Sherlock gasped at the sound and feel of the fabric tearing, and allowed the torn shirt to be yanked down over his shoulders and wrists, before it was flung onto the floor without ceremony. John's hand was suddenly on the back of his neck, pulling him forward as the doctor's lips captured his in a forceful, possessive kiss, that was only broken for a moment whilst John pulled his own shirt up and off of his body, exposing his broad chest. Their lips crashed together again, the doctor's tongue licking a wet line across Sherlock's lips before pushing between his teeth, exploring every inch of the detective's mouth. His free hand slid around Sherlock's waist and lifted him, pushing them both onto the floor, remnants of tangled jumpers still scattered across the floorboards.

John's eager mouth moved down to Sherlock's slender neck, biting and sucking red-blue bruises onto the delicately pale flesh. He licked a long line across the detective's prominent collarbone, growling with lust as this drew a moan of want from the man beneath him. His hands teased and pinched at Sherlock's nipples, forcing the detective's back right off of the floor. John sucked and licked wet trails along the sore, reddened flesh, and then bit down suddenly, grasping Sherlock's hip to keep him from bucking him off.

Sherlock swore and hissed through his teeth at the stinging contact, John's mouth feeling too hot around his tortured nipples. His whole body felt on fire, tingling and buzzing as he allowed John to play with every inch of his supple flesh.

The doctor sat up, and undid Sherlock's belt, unbuttoning his fly and pulling the detective's hips up so as to slide the fabric down and off of Sherlock's legs before casting them aside. He slid his fingers underneath the waistband of Sherlock's underwear, grinning as the man pushed his hips up again to make them easier to discard. He slid the garment slowly and carefully down over the detective's hips, enjoying Sherlock's groan as his hard and aching cock was finally released from the constrictions of his underwear. He slid them off completely, before standing up.

"Turn over." He commanded, loving the look of lust that swept over Sherlock's bright eyes as he revelled in the firmness of John's tone. "I want you on all fours."

And Sherlock moved slowly to comply; John removed the remainder of his own clothes before kneeling back down to where Sherlock was positioned. The detective gasped and moaned as John's lips attached themselves to his sensitive shoulder blades. John laid kisses all the way down Sherlock's long back, paying special attention to the dip where his spine arched.

"Spread your legs wider, Sherlock". The detective inched his thighs apart, the blush along his cheekbones rising as he became more exposed. A sharp slap landed on the inside of both thighs, and he yelped as the sensitive flesh stung and grew hot where John's hand had landed.

"Wider." The growling command almost sent Sherlock over the edge, and he spread his stinging thighs as wide as possible. There was a moment's pause where he heard John shifting behind him, before he felt a hand on each arse cheek, spreading him wide, and then -

Sherlock could do nothing but gasp for air as he felt John lick a hot, wet line right along his entrance, lapping at the highly sensitive flesh in long, bold strokes. The detective's entire body shuddered and shook at the incredible sensation, and the outer ring of muscle relaxed at John's persistent licking, allowing his tongue to slowly slip inside. Sherlock was unable to control himself as he pushed further against John, his head feeling light and airy and his legs shaking with pleasure. His cock was throbbing now, pre-cum seeping from the head and trailing against his thighs. He just needed-

"John" he groaned. "Uh, God, please John, I need more."

The doctor's tongue pushed further inside him, opening him up wider, swirling expertly around and along the ring of muscle to relax it, delving in and out and licking at a maddening pace.

"John!" Sherlock's shoulders were almost giving in, and sweat was sliding off of his toned and muscular back. John immediately kneeled up and pushed the head of his pulsing cock into Sherlock's wet and gaping entrance, slowly but firmly pressing himself inside of the detective.

Sherlock's words seemed to get stuck in his chest, as the blunt head of John's cock breached his entrance, filling him up. Sherlock shifted slightly to accommodate John's length, and there was a moment of silence as both men were made breathless by the intimacy of the act. Then, Sherlock felt the sliding of John's cock almost pulling out, before the doctor's hips slammed back into him, forcing him forward. Sherlock gasped and cried out, his whole body aching with need as John fucked him, his thick cock sliding in and out, and his firm hands grasping Sherlock's slight hips with bruising force. He felt John shift a little behind him, changing angle before thrusting again, his cock grazing right against Sherlock's prostate.

The detective yelped as his nerves tingled and stood on end. John growled and thrust harder, his hip bucking and slamming against Sherlock uncontrollably as he felt Sherlock tense up against him and shake as his orgasm took hold. It only took a few more thrusts until John came, the thick warm fluid spilling inside Sherlock and filling him up, whilst the detective slumped against the floor, his chest and the wooden floor both sticky and sated with semen.

His legs still shaking, Sherlock panted heavily as he turned to face John, who was looking at him with glazed eyes.

"What?" he said, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to John's lips, not even bothering to try and see if he was able to stand up yet. "Why are you staring at me?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm not." He said, his breathing still heavy and uneven. "I was just thinking, we should play this game more often."

"Is that so?" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Why do you say that?"

John grinned. "Because the well-fucked look suits you rather well."


End file.
